Lines
by monkey-in-hell
Summary: Post E7 drabble


A/N Wow. Episode Seven was interesting, can't wait for the finale. I thought I'd try a Gene story this time around but - again - I'm not too sure about this little drabble...

Lines

"Alex bloody Drake."

The three words had bubbled in his head for most of the day, bouncing hurtfully from side to side yet saying them out loud relieved none of the pressure. But it did _feel_ good. He couldn't do right for doing wrong with that woman. 'Trust your instincts,' she had said to him - well, that's how he remembered it anyway, he could do without the 'ageing' part, thank you very much. So he had trusted his instincts and his instincts had told him there was something not quite right with that Gil bloke or his story. Though what _was_ right about a man travelling around the country in a bleeding bath tub? And he'd been right too, she just couldn't see it, couldn't admit she was wrong. Couldn't see past his methods which, admittedly, left something to be desired on this occasion. Not that he'd ever admit that out loud. And not to her. But there had been a great deal resting upon the conclusion of the case; the eyes of the nation were on his department and he couldn't afford to fail.

He poured himself another glass of amber liquid, his only companion that night. Though they had solved the case there seemed little cause for celebration, at least not as a team. He'd let things go too far, had gone back to a different time, a time when he could solve his problems with his fists - and they all knew that. Now his DI wanted nothing to do with him, she'd made that quite clear. Chris was at the hospital with Shaz; the WPC was going to make it and she had Chris with her, they didn't need him. He supposed he could've taken up Raymondo's offer of getting completely wasted but his heart wasn't in it and, despite his current activities, he didn't want to spend the night bad mouthing the other female member of their team, which he suspected would be Ray's chosen subject. So he was alone. Again. With only the bottle and his thoughts for company, the latter wallowing on the one woman he couldn't shake, not even with the help of the former. 

"Stupid, bloody woman."

He took a long swig - the beauty of drinking at home meant he could be more than generous with the measures - and stared blankly ahead but his thoughts were soon back on her. She plagued his life, his dreams - everything.

He hadn't known what to think of Alex Drake when he'd first met her. Okay, when he'd _first_ met her he'd known exactly what to think of her, only to find out later that she was his new DI. He was immediately suspicious of her, though he would be suspicious of anyone who willingly transferred to his department; that whole mess with Tyler and those nancys at Hyde was something he was keen to avoid again, especially given the current climate. This time there was too much at stake. But was she there to undermine him? To make sure he failed? To put the final nail in his coffin? He hadn't been sure back then and now it seemed he'd been right to be cautious about her - she'd gone over his head and had him, with the help of that Evan bloke, thrown off the case.

"Scheming bitch."

He let that anger swirl away with the rest of his drink, the warm liquid burning its way down his throat, dissolving the lump that threatened to reside there.

In a way he couldn't blame her entirely; this was partly his fault. He'd been drawn to her almost from the start, there was just something so very different about her, something that made her stand out from every other woman he'd ever met in his life. And that was his downfall. She was strong, smart, sexy, beautiful - she challenged him, stood up to him, and infuriated the hell out of him. Yet she was also vulnerable and, despite a head full of brains, a little crazy at times - fruitcake, anyone? - which just made some deep instinct within him, one that he didn't fully understand, want to protect her from the world around them - another thing he'd never admit out loud - rather than try and knock some sense into her. He should have been more wary.

There was a dark storm approaching and if he wasn't careful he was going to be swallowed up by it. His handling of the case had not helped matters. Why had he let her talk him into appearing on the telly? Christ, he was no fairy and he'd been certain that a television appeal would be of no help at all - the reconstruction hadn't done them any favours. But he'd done it, done it for her, and made a complete arse of himself in the process. With a resigned sigh he acknowledged the answer to that one: they were a good team, they worked well together, he'd trusted her. He'd even begun to think that she was the answer to all of his problems rather than someone intent on destroying him and his department. 

"Posh, mouthy tart."

He eyed the bottle of scotch wistfully, oblivion lay at the bottom, a chance to escape from recent events and forget everything. Forget another night spent alone, another night wasted. If things had been different he could have been with her now, taken her out for dinner - somewhere posh - could have bumbled his way through her seduction just as he had the invitation, an invitation she had somehow accepted. Would she have let him seduce her too? No point dwelling on that, or on the fact that he'd already let her slip through his fingers once before.

He reached for the bottle, pouring another generous serving into his glass. Before it reached his lips his eyes fell upon the calendar on the wall; not at the lovely, semi-naked 'Miss October' staring wantonly out at him, and who would no doubt morph into _her _the further he got down that bottle, but at the days below. There wasn't long to go now.

It was the end of the line for coppers like him. 

It was the end of the line for him.

It was the end of the line.


End file.
